#m:bsd

Akutagawa’s clothes are a tool to wield his ability; his shoulders a frame for them, but it’s not Rashomon that shakes under Chuuya’s combat-calloused hands.  

When Chuuya next leaves, it’s another long-winded mission; a trip guaranteed to last at least a month longer than his last job. Akutagawa doesn’t think about the leather and husky tones and practiced movements tucked within the sinews of his palms the same way he doesn’t think about the white crescent marks left in Chuuya’s.  

The next time such warmth breaches the surface of his hands, it’s the erratic pulse of some man’s throat before it gets slit by Rashomon’s talons.  

ii.  

 There’s a moment of stillness that comes after annihilation. It’s not often they share it together; their factions demand different things of them, and they’re horsepower of separate kinds. The aftermath leaves not a single pleasant thing to look at. Even the debris of the warehouse giving way to the falling sun is a reminder of early morning hours exhausting into the dead of the afternoon, the hottest part of the day.  

Chuuya had lost at least two of his men. It’s yet another abnormality, and Akutagawa is once again unfamiliar with the energy blazing through Chuuya’s stance, nor the repentance that usually follows and that which stunts the lightness of Chuuya’s footsteps when he goes to give in his report.   

Then Chuuya meets his eyes, and there is something in the pit of Akutagawa’s stomach that is more felt than known, the kind of striking heat he had not remembered since Dazai’s arm pierced through the abyss like a thread awaiting his grasp. The look continues, and Akutagawa is struggling not to turn away.  

There’s not a single pleasant thing to look at, and Chuuya keeps his eyes trained on him until day bleeds into night. 

(It is then he learns that his body’s purpose is to act as passage for Rashomon, and Chuuya’s is to contain.) 

iii. 

 The chill of the winter comes like icicles sliding down his ankles, but Akutagawa feels renewed, as though finally able to take his first full breath. The heat had dissolved in Yokohama, travelling across the sea like an overtaken spirit. It left the day cushioned in thick fog, the nights filtered through blues and greys.  

Akutagawa appreciated the ease the piercing cold granted his lungs, even if it meant circulation failed to reach the tips of his fingers.  

“Someone’s looking for you,” Akutagawa whips his gaze up, and Chuuya is there, leaning against the side of his car and flicking ash from his cigarette. His voice is tinged with amusement, and Akutagawa’s body strings up tight from being caught off-guard. “Half of the building’s been interrogated.” 

Akutagawa makes a stiff move to bow but Chuuya hurriedly waves him off, “Come on, none of that shit.”  

“Chuuya-san,” Akutagawa acknowledges.

Eventually, Chuuya says, “I don’t envy you right now.” He eyes the extent of Akutagawa’s injuries and jerks his chin to motion at either the battered state of his face or the sling containing his arm. “So, it’s not my problem if you won’t stay put.”   

Akutagawa stays silent as Chuuya puts out his cigarette, the need to dismiss himself growing by the second, but Chuuya’s company was better than Higuchi’s. “How long have they got you in for?” 

“A week.”  

“That bad?” 

“No.” Akutagawa answered.  

Chuuya watches him carefully. The days following the operation were the worst, a blur of pain and restlessness - humiliation that stretched with Higuchi’s constant visits and air permeating everywhere but his lungs. Needless to say, he isn’t going back.

Somehow Chuuya sees something that satisfies him because he shrugs, “Well, you’re up and walking so I’d say you’re doing something right.”  

Akutagawa nods, and he can’t deny the pulse of relief Chuuya’s words give him, though it’s gone as soon as Higuchi’s voice pierces through the fog. He hears Chuuya’s snort and realises the disdain he felt must have been visible. A beat, and then Chuuya is looking at him, and then at his car, and then back to him.  

They burn rubber getting away from the curb, and the soreness of his bones, the silence and Higuchi are drowned out by the sound of Chuuya’s laughter; bold and almost, but too hearty to be called a cackle, a backdrop to the grin that stretches his lips tight and bares his teeth. It creates a kind of flippancy contrary to Chuuya’s attitude on the battlefield with dozens of men under his command, and Akutagawa feels his shoulders drawing in, baffled as they drive into traffic.  

  iv. 

 They run into each other again. This time, it’s different. Chuuya stands from where he was perched, offers him a close-lipped smile, and for some reason, it’s more intriguing to look at than the dark shadows under his eyes. Chuuya places a hand on his shoulder, and Rashomon lives through Akutagawa’s strained breath, but his shoulder is connected to his neck, to his chest, his arms, his abdomen –  

  v.  

 Chuuya doesn’t know the exact point in time in which it became acceptable to see Akutagawa as anything more (or less) than the boy with the title ‘Silent Rabid Dog of the Port Mafia.’

It’s not like Chuuya has his handle on things either; he rides the highs of his victories, he crashes, he drinks it away. And Akutagawa, he grits his teeth, mends himself around bullets and sleeps with his eyes wide open and blood in his mouth while looking like he’s never had a single fucking thing to eat in his life. 

But Dazai answers his questions without being prompted.

It happened a day after his last mission, Oda eventually learns. It was too dark for Dazai to see around the apartment, and he had knocked an empty bottle off the counter before stepping on the shattered glass. Instead of seeking help, Dazai had lain himself down in the bathtub and spent the whole night picking the shards out of his flesh.

Dazai describes the brand the glass made from his sole to bottom of his big toe, splitting the arch of his foot down the middle. Even without straining the injury, Oda knows this to mean soaked bandages and passive pain, but Dazai picks his faces of discomfort before anyone could make their speculations.

“It’s such a pain to walk, and crutches are too heavy.” Dazai whines. “This is horrible. I’d rather be wheeled around in a wheelchair.”

“I would push you to wherever you need to go.” Oda promises. He likens the blend of his coffee to the saccharine smile on Dazai’s face, and takes twice as long to finish it.

[...]

“What happened to your arm?”

“Ah, I was reaching under the window to my apartment and it jammed over my wrist when I wasn’t looking. I forgot my keys when I left that morning, you see.”

“You should be more careful. And your face and foot?”

“When I got free from the window, I lost my footing on the tree I was standing on and fell off.”

“And you landed badly on your ankle?”

“That’s right.”

“I see. Did you remember your keys this time?”

“I remembered this time!”

[...]

It takes more than a few stops to the rest room and one straining bus trip, but Oda manages to drag Dazai to his home and into the bathroom, leaving droplets of blood in their wake. He’s unfamiliar with the layout of Dazai’s flat, but it’s easy enough to find rolls of bandage amidst the empty crab meat cans and glass bottles. Perched on the toilet lid, Dazai watches on with an absence Oda’s only seen before in small glimpses.

He raises his arms, however, when Oda gestures for them, and doesn’t protest when Oda unravels his bandages. What they reveal only confirms what they both knew; the stitches are in dire need of new dressings, and Dazai is in dire need of a clean. They’re both silent as Oda works through each dressing, peeling off gauze after gauze, and Dazai winces with every swab of disinfectant.

He slows down when he reaches Dazai’s left hand, where the wounds seem most inflamed, but when he looks up, Dazai is more focused on the far bathroom wall, and Oda wonders - not for the first time that evening - what Dazai sees that Oda cannot. It’s unsettling, but Dazai’s mouth houses blood and silk and one million questions but never the answer. 

When he looks back down, Dazai’s skin is dark and blistered and the nails are missing from his pinkie to his middle finger.

“Ah, that,” Dazai speaks up, a small smile on his face. It’s quiet, but even the bandages falling to the floor is loud enough in the cramped bathroom. “Yesterday, I ran all out of canned food but it was too cold to go out, so I tried to cook something–”

“Dazai.” Oda says. Dazai goes quiet.

Oda adjusts the temperature of the bath and tapes water-resistant bags over the worst of Dazai’s injuries. Dazai had successfully pulled his top off (not that it revealed anything the endless sashes of bandage would have) and let Oda wash him down with a sponge, tenderly avoiding the wounds and stitches. Dazai’s fingers eventually start to twitch and Oda took this as his cue to move away. He exits the bathroom to let Dazai finish the rest.

Inside, it’s still cold enough for Oda to see his own breath but he had switched on the kotatsu as they entered, and decides to make full use of that now. He doesn’t linger on the bareness of Dazai’s apartment, it reminds him too much of the vacancy in Dazai’s gaze.

Dazai leaves the bathroom a good half an hour later, returning to the sight of Oda attempting to blink the sleep out of his eyes.

“It looks warm there.” Dazai says. Dazai looks even warmer; flushed healthily from the hot water, new bandages a pristine white.  

“You’re welcome to join me.” Oda says.

Dazai is not even remotely as warm as the kotatsu, but Oda finds that out through Dazai falling against his shoulder and passing out.   

[...]

No matter which bar of whichever geographical location Dazai has the opportunity to occupy, the bartender will never be wheedled into mixing his drink with bleach.

“I’m surprised,” Oda responds, “that they let you in in the first place.”

“It turns out that Executives have all kinds of influence…” Dazai suddenly turns to Oda, doe-eyed and guileless. “Naturally, you would think that this rank would have people tripping over themselves to obey, but I think barkeeps are forming a coalition against me.”

“They’re more afraid of the consequences of killing an Executive of the Port Mafia than facing your wrath,” Oda agrees, though he knows the latter is a fate far worse than any.

Dazai sighs mournfully. “Odasaku, let’s swap places.”

Oda brings the glass to his lips on a top stool at Bar Lupin, listening as Dazai drags one protest after another until it all blends into a narrative worthy of a novel. That Dazai’s blather never holds substance, though once awkward – like Dazai was unable to fit into any space - has become a constant in his life, in the same way Kosuke and his mischievous gang strive to keep Oda on his toes.

“You know, today…” Dazai pools into his seat.

“What is it?”

“A long-time supplier has been issuing us faulty products recently, and I was ordered to take care of it.”

Oda asks, “What kind of products?”

“Weapons.” Dazai traces imaginary patterns into the air, “Among other things. I wanted to see if they would work in reverse and end up finishing me instead, so I tried one out.”

“It didn’t work.” Oda guesses.

“It didn’t work,” Dazai sighs, his arm swinging down as dead weight. “Actually, the supplier’s brains went splat and the recoil ended up damaging my arm all the way up to my shoulder.”

“I see.” Oda murmurs. “That is unfortunate.”

“Isn’t it?” Dazai says through pursed lips. He groaned, making a show of flexing his fingers, and then bringing the closer to inspect them. “Something doesn’t feel right.”

Oda makes a noise of inquisition. “Is it your hand?”

Dazai outstretches it to him, never taking his eyes off, and Oda grasps him around the wrist. The touch burns just a little warmer than anticipated, but he diligently tests each finger, and then recalls Dazai’s particular aversion to pain.  

Oda pauses. “It’s your index finger.”

Dazai grimaces. “Is it bad? I hope it’s not. I don’t like going to the infirmary, they stick all kinds of needles in me and...” Dazai cuts off not a second after Oda pops his finger back into place.

Dazai is quiet, until, “Ow.” He says, and then wriggles his renewed finger before his face. “Oh. That feels much better.”

Oda nods. “It would have been bad if that went unnoticed.”

There’s silence, for a bit. Dazai retracts his hand and his smile forms and connects easier. “Lucky I have you here, huh, Odasaku?”

Oda raises the glass to his lips. “Is that so?”

Dazai laughs and follows suit. 

dazai is as meticulous, as cunning, as frightening before a chessboard as he is on the battlefield. of course, it surprises no one.

“ah, that must have been painful, odasaku,” dazai, with his quick fingers, knocks one of the pieces over. a dark queen stands in its place, tall and proud, and beautiful, “sacrificing your knight like that.”

“it should have been a pawn,” his opponent agrees.

dazai’s pieces are black but so is his scrutiny of the board.

akutagawa watches from behind him to his left, like a shadow. at one point, dazai glances over his shoulder, but to focus on the movement outside rather than within the room. 

it is not a concern, because akutagawa feels connected to every minute interval between every move dazai makes anyway.

akutagawa turned sixteen a week ago but his education has been monitored for only two years; he’s still filling in the gaps. and he’s only known dazai to bring this amount of silence to a battlefield.

“pawns are so pitiful.” dazai sighs, chin nestled in his arms. akutagawa can feel oda’s stare engraving letters into his skull and the urge to bare his teeth almost surpasses the opportunity to study dazai’s breathing, and the paleness of his nape.

2. witness

there’s something beautiful about the way akutagawa cracks and unravels with every breath that utters of dazai. but it is too morbid a thought for atsushi to uphold, reveals something ugly in himself. dazai is beautiful in the way he’s embraced by the river, because the white and the blues of the earth shrivel to accommodate him.

“do you think he’ll let you go?” atsushi fidgets with his fingers between his knees, and he’s not so sure why this mission in particular has him on edge.

dazai’s eyes flicker to him. under the light, it seems like amusement. “do you?” dazai walks ahead when kunikdia instructs them to, and atsushi feels like clutching the man’s lapels.

(are you ever going to let him go?)

3. voyeur

the mafia takes those who have steel for blood and refines them. sometimes, chuuya feels like he has neither, and sometimes the mafia he brings home keeps him saner than what he takes to headquarters.

his gaze follows dazai’s new pet project in a coat five sizes too big but the coat itself has never been filled once. he watches a youthful face sunken with shadows that drench the alleyways of yokohama, round eyes that knew so much but nothing better, as they turn to his scum-of-the-earth partner in something approaching reverence but reads like fealty. worse isn’t the sight of the kid in dazai’s eyes but the eyes themselves, that flicker with a life he’s never been taught, adjusting the coat over bony shoulders.

he has steel for blood, but the basin is ruined with the stench of dinner and alcohol and the kidnapping of an innocence chuuya’s never known or owned or wanted.

4. mine

akutagawa walks like the devil traces his every step and so he never stops and the bags keep growing underneath eyes, below his dark lashes.

dazai counts his eyelashes, remembers the thin fullness of soft pink lips and the breath that’s been caressing his cheek far more often than it’s been tickling the backside of his left shoulder.

he leaves him in the dirt where he was found.

4. i. yours

“come back to me.”